


Words

by napstabl00k



Category: Assassin's Creed, Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword, The Legend of Zelda
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:30:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/napstabl00k/pseuds/napstabl00k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stolen. He had been stolen.<br/>Cruel. That was this world, and it was so very clueless in its cruelty.<br/>Exception. That was the assassins. </p><p>(Rated for graphic torture and sex. Altair/Ghirahim, AltMal. Other possible characters/pairings to come.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pondering

**Author's Note:**

> i literally know zero italian at this point. i used to take it, i dont anymore. im really sorry if you speak it, because this is all google translated. itll have translations in parentheses next to it, but this is merely for the readers.   
> also, i actually have no idea how actual ancient hylian works. all i could find is that it is similar to latin, so i based it off of that. if any of you can point me to a source that has figured out the real conversions, you would be awesome and i would probably love you forever.

Pondering.  
This was a word that could describe Ghirahim at this moment: he wasn’t thinking, no, that took far too much effort. He was simply… pondering. The sunlight filtered through the leaves above him, and he pondered his existence, the four-hundred-odd years he had spent waiting for the sign that his work was not in vain, that the Goddess had returned and he could bring back the essence of his life. The woods around him were alive with constant movement, and he was a statue, the Ponderer, posed in a rather cliché way atop his favorite tree. The birds twittered in the trees  
and then the twittering was replaced with the shouts of angry men. Confusion and contempt filled the demon’s mind, along with the feeling of falling and an intense exhaustion, like he had just teleported thousands of miles. His vision, earlier so full of greenery and light, was replaced with darkness and stone, and disorientation. He found himself lying on cold, hard ground – _What is going on?_ People were speaking in strange tongues around him, and he felt something clasp around his limp wrists. He was being carried – dragged – to somewhere, something. Someone? He couldn’t tell; the weariness was blurring his vision, and he couldn’t breathe. Darkness seeped into his eyes and he  
black ed  
ou  
t


	2. Pain

Pain.  
This was a word that not only described Ghirahim; no, it embodied Ghirahim. He was pain, and pain was him; they were mutually exclusive, there was no doubt. Not that this was anything new. The sword spirit had experienced his share of pain before, though not quite at this rate. It was everywhere: his torso, which felt like it had been slashed into shreds; his legs, which did not hold him up; his forehead, pierced by the low light of the room; his wrists, clasped in shackles –  
Shackles. He was trapped.  
His first instinct was to teleport. This, of course, did nothing but cause more pain to his chest, for he had been trying to teleport unconsciously for hours, and it had all but destroyed his magical core. He opened one eye to a squint to observe his torso. It was completely unblemished, aside from the hurting like a bitch part. Yes, that was definitely interior damage only. He squeezed his eye shut again, and groaned softly. Oh, how he hated light at times like this.  
Times. Like this. This. Where was he? Straining unintentionally at his bonds, he opened his eye again, to get a better look around him – and found a man standing in front of him.  
He was a gruff-looking man, with a generous helping of dark hair on both his head and face. His peachy skin looked pallid in the torchlight, and he had a very sinister air about him – _A human version of my Master._ Ghirahim entertained the thought and dismissed it easily – there could be no human equivalent to his Master. They did not hold such capacity for violence and hatred. He turned back to the man at hand, and realized he was being spoken to.  
“Tu sei sveglio.” It was a language Ghirahim had never heard, so gaudy and ridiculous compared to the simplicity of Hylian, or the guttural grunts of Demon. “Finalmente! Mi si annoiava, potrei avere tagliarti la gola per l'intrattenimento.” (You are awake. Finally! I was getting bored, I might have slit your throat for entertainment.)  
Ghirahim opened his eyes a bit further, ignoring his headache in favor of observing his surroundings. He was in a small chamber with a high ceiling, a prison cell by the looks of it. He was chained to the wall with iron shackles (he pulled at them a few times, and they seemed new) and was held up by them, resulting in screaming agony from his shoulder joints (not that he paid it much mind – the pain in his chest was more than enough to distract from physical tortures). There were no windows, and a heavy iron door barred the only entrance and exit, no doubt covered in locks on the other side. The only source of fresh air in the room was a two-foot-long slit near the top of the wall – a sliver of sunlight fell through, telling Ghirahim that it was sometime during the day.  
“Stai ascoltando?” (Are you listening to me?) A slap to the face brought Ghirahim back to the danger at hand. “Mi hai capito?” (Do you understand me?)  
The demon squinted at the man, his headache suddenly coming back full force from the sudden movement. He closed his eyes again and attempted to lay his head back against the wall, only to find that it was too far away. Dismayed, he opened his eyes again, watching with slight amusement as the man tried to talk to him and got no response, his cheeks growing redder and redder as he got angrier. _Mortals and their transparent skin,_ he chuckled to himself. His laughter, unfortunately, earned him another slap.  
“Non ridere di me, demonio!” (Do not laugh at me, demon!) Ghirahim’s eyes widened. _Demonio…_ That sounded an awful lot like demon. Perhaps the language branches were not quite so far off as he expected. “Posso causare grandi sofferenze!” (I can cause you great suffering!) There it was again – _sofferenze._ Not quite as close to Hylain’s _sufereci,_ but it was close enough to notice. He had learned Hylian in a week – and it was so very different from Demon, all soft sounds and grace – he could definitely learn this language just as easily, if not better, now that he had a connector.  
This had him wondering – if he could use Hylian to understand them, perhaps they could use their language to understand Hylian. There was no harm in trying – he knew that being silent during torture, while valiant, really got oneself deeper into the land of pain and nothing else. “Quidsa vi?” he tried to say, and found his words slurring together. He gathered his strength, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Quidsa vi?” (What do you want?)  
The man looked startled for a moment, then leaned back and chuckled. “Ah, parla!” He frowned, and leaned back in. “Ma non in italiano. Sembra come il latino.” (Ah, he speaks! But not in Italian. It sounds like Latin.) He turned away and walked to the door, opening a slot that Ghirahim had not noticed before. “Prendi il traduttore!” (Get the translator!) Walking back in front of the demon, he pulled up one of the chairs that stood against the wall of the chamber and sat down.  
A few moments later, a small man entered, looking quite terrified. He was clutching a book to his chest, as if it was his last great lifeline. “Mi è st-stato detto di entrare?” (I wa-was told to enter?) he stuttered.  
The big man looked up. “Marcella! Così bene a unirsi a noi.” (Marcella! So good of you to join us.) He clapped a rough hand on the scholar’s shoulder, jostling his owlish glasses. He gestured to Ghirahim with the other. “Questa creatura parla! Ma non in italiano. Mi chiedevo se si potrebbe tradurre?” (This creature speaks! But not in Italian. I was wondering if you could translate?)  
Ghirahim curled his lip in disgust. _Creatura._ He could tell as well as anyone what that word meant – and in such a tone, the meaning behind it was not lost. These men did not think of him as a person. Not that he had ever really been thought of as a person – his Master treated him as a tool, a weapon that could be easily replaced. (This was birdshit, of course; there was no other sword in creation like him, except the Goddess Sword.) However used to it he may have been, he still found it insulting; did they not realize his supreme perfection? How dare they! “Tul illudare mihi est, si ne ultura loquaris ita,” he spat with as much venom as he could muster in his weakened state. (If you continue to insult me in such a way I might not talk at all.)  
“Oh, hm,” Marcella muttered, suddenly interested and not at all taken aback by Ghirahim’s spite. “Sembra pensare di offrire lo insultano.” (He seems to think you offer him insult.) Ghirahim raised his eyebrows ever so slightly – insultano was very far from what he was expecting, but he supposed it was close enough to the word he was thinking.  
“Qui esti?” Ghirahim supposed there was no harm in trying again, and asked a simple question: Who are you?  
To his surprise, both men’s eyes widened, and they exchanged a glance, the meaning of which was not lost on the demon. _They understood me._ Finally, they were getting somewhere.  
Marcella stepped a bit closer, and placed his hand on his chest, trembling visibly from either fear or excitement, or perhaps both. “Il mio nome è Marcella,” he said shakily. (My name is Marcella.)  
Ghiahim nodded and closed his eyes; he had deduced that much. All of this communication was beginning to get to him, however. It had been such a long time since he had last spoken to another humanoid, and his exhaustion wasn’t helping.  
“Oi, non addormentarsi! Abbiamo bisogno di parlare.” The big man struck the side of Ghirahim’s face, and the sword spirit retaliated out of pure instinct, snarling and snapping at the man, his teeth clicking together audibly. The glare he directed at the man would have caused all to flee before him back in Hylia, and yet it did not seem to affect the big man in the slightest. Goddesses, he just wanted to rest. He hated torture. And they hadn’t even gotten to the pain bit yet. Today just was not his day.  
“Ah, Signore Baronelli,” Marcella placed his hand on the other man’s forearm. “Cerca di non rompere la mascella, sì?” (Try not break his jaw, yes?) Ghirahim’s mouth tightened visibly at the mention of it ( _mascella_ was so close to _masilla_ that it made his jaw bone ache). The large man – _Baronelli,_ Ghirahim thought, pleased to finally have a name to put to the monster – backed down, and the translator looked to Ghirahim again. “Ora che abbiamo stabilito il contatto, cerchiamo di rispondere.” (Now that we have established contact, let us try to respond.) He pointed to the demon and enunciated in clear Latin, “Quid est nomen tibi?”  
Ghirahim stared at the small man. Sure, some of the syllables were off, and _name_ and _you_ were inexplicably switched, but he had just asked for a name – that much was certain. Marcella was frowning now, he noticed, and he repeated, “Quid est nomen tibi? Forse se cerco italiano. Qual è il tuo nome?” (Perhaps if I try Italian. What is your name?)  
Ghirahim had the sense to blink, for his eyes were watering up from excessive staring. That attempt wasn’t much better – it was probably worse, actually, given that _quid_ was closer to _quidi_ than _qual_ was. He shook his head as obviously as he could in an attempt to indicate this, and luckily, Marcella wasn’t an idiot and understood. “Quid est nomen tibi?”  
Of course, just because they had figured out how exactly to say “what is your name” in a language Ghirahim could understand didn’t mean he was going to actually answer properly. He knew as well as anyone that names were a very serious subject; giving one out, even if it was fake, could cost you your life – or your freedom. And, honestly, he really didn’t feel like being entirely civil to these people. They had him chained to a wall in a very uncomfortable fashion, and he made sure to accentuate this fact by rattling his chains as he responded angrily, “Non tibi decame!” (I will not tell you!)  
The scholar seemed very taken aback at his outburst. He turned to Baronelli. “Si rifiuta di dire!” (He refuses to tell!) he whispered heatedly, and gestured to the shackles. “Egli non si compiace.” (He is not pleased.)  
With a growl, the larger man stepped forward, pulling a knife from his coat. “Bene, allora. Sembra che il mio momento è finalmente arrivato. Abbiamo bisogno che il nome per il contratto. Ed egli ve la darà.” (Well then. It seems my time has finally come. We need that name for the contract. And he will give it.) A sinister grin stretched over his face.  
“Egli ve lo darà.”  
(He will give it.)


	3. Crazy

Crazy.  
A sea away, Altaïr was freaking out. The Piece of Eden was going crazy. That was the only explanation for how it was acting right now, with its flashing and screaming. The only explanation he was getting for its actions right now was a map of the world continuously appearing above it, an entire section of it glowing red. _What in Allah’s name could cause this?_ he wondered, trying to keep his cool as the Apple grew hot. He waited until the map appeared again, and tried to tap the red section, and to his surprise, it zoomed in. It closed in on the Mediterranean Sea, and then the east coast of Italy. An area about fifty knots east and south of the coast was coated in red, and the Piece of Eden seemed to insist on it, beeping and making a general ruckus. Altaïr’s brow furrowed as he tried to discern the meaning, but he had never been very good with the mystic object.  
Turning away from the golden orb, he raced out of his study and hopped the banister of the stairs, deciding that time was of more importance than health at the moment. “Malik!” he yelled into the halls, attempting to locate his adviser, who knew more about the Apple than he, the (recently appointed) Grandmaster, did. “Malik!” Not quite watching where he was going, he ran very bodily into Abbas, knocking them both to the ground.  
“Whoa there, Altaïr! I see that your new status has done nothing to improve your attentiveness,” the swordmaster teased, offering a hand to help his friend up. Altaïr accepted it, and clung to his friend a moment.  
“Have you seen Malik?”  
“Why, yes. He is in the training area. I just came from there myself, actually—“  
“Thank you, Abbas, continue on.” Altaïr turned and ran back the way he came, darting down one of the side paths and arriving in the immense courtyard, where he spotted his friend on the climbing wall.  
Not wanting to startle the one-armed man, Altaïr waited (albeit impatiently) for him to climb down before calling his name. “Malik!” The man turned, looking rather irritated.  
“Is there something the matter, Altaïr? I was just about to enjoy this time off from my work to try to enhance my skills, but if your needs are greater than my welfare—“  
“Save your snark for later, brother, we have a problem.” The suppressed panic in Altaïr’s voice effectively shut Malik up.  
“Lead me.”  
They dashed the entire length back to Altaïr’s office, taking the stairs this time, for the sake of Malik. When they burst through the door, the Apple was still shrieking, and the map was still hovering above it. Malik approached it rather warily, Altaïr keeping his distance. The Dai poked at the map, and when it gave no response, he sat back and stared at it.  
“Well, there is no doubt that something major has happened, and in this area,” he muttered, more to himself than Altaïr. “But for what reason…” He crouched down lower and looked at the instrument itself, searching the surface for the telltale button that would appear whenever it tried to voice something. It was always small and difficult to reach, but Malik had been messing with the thing for two years, and in Altaïr’s experience had never once failed to solve the orb’s mysteries.  
“Aha!” With a deft hand, Malik manipulated the Apple in a complex fashion, and the projection changed, surrounding them both in an illusion. It now showed a stream – no, a vortex, composed of golden particles, undulating and swirling and moving in a definite direction. Suddenly, the vortex erupted red, and a part in the middle that had been moving along lazily split in two as… _something_ was snatched from it and pulled to another area, staining the offending portion with red as well. The streams then seemed to attempt to re-align themselves; but something had broken through, and blood-colored light was leaking from the cracks, slowly seeping into the entirety of the vortex, until the whole thing just… stopped.  
And time and space shattered.  
The pieces flew towards Malik and Altaïr, and the latter unthinkingly threw himself over the former, bringing them both to the ground. Altaïr grunted as the pieces sliced through his skin, even though he knew that it was just an illusion. He screwed his eyes shut, and waited for it to be over.

“…aïr. Altaïr. Altaïr!” Altaïr’s olive eyes snapped open and found themselves faced with brown ones. He was still lying on top of Malik.  
“Flattered as I am, my friend, I would like to breathe,” the man in question gasped, and the Grandmaster rolled off of him, feeling a bit hot under the not-so-metaphorical collar. He forgot the feeling quickly, however, as he remembered the vision.  
“What the hell was that?” He stood and turned to Malik, who had found his feet again as well. His scruffy hair had been mussed by the fall, and Altaïr found it cute, despite his best efforts not to. It was ruined (or perhaps enhanced) when the man ran his right hand through it.  
“I have no idea,” Malik murmured wonderingly. He had never been a part of the full-body hallucinations before, Altaïr realized. His hand wandering absentmindedly to rub at his left arm, he turned to stare at the Piece of Eden. “But it’s definitely trying to tell us something.” He collapsed into a chair, still massaging his stump, and began to work out the puzzle.  
Altaïr stood before his friend a moment more before turning and striding to the window, hopping through it in one smooth motion. He quickly scaled the building, perching atop one of the overhangs. He enjoyed sitting in this specific place to think; it had a beautiful view of his homeland, and it was shaded at most points of the day by one of the tall towers that rose up from the Assassin Order, shielding the assassin from the desert sun and its harmful rays.  
Once he had himself in a comfortable sitting position, his mind settled on the vision. The vortex – he could tell, with its swirling patterns and distinctly separated streams woven through each other like a basket, that it was supposed to represent something. But what? Time? Space? Humanity? There were just too many possibilities. And the way that part of one of the streams had been plucked away by another – what did that mean? Something had been stolen from their realm? Or perhaps their realm had stolen something. He sank deeper into his thoughts, turning each possibility over in his mind, knowing that Malik was doing the same five stories below him.  
They were pondering.


	4. Blood

Blood.  
The room was made of blood. It covered the walls, the floor; it had even reached the ceiling somehow, forcefully ejected from Ghirahim’s veins by the intense beating of his heart. The pain he embodied was physical, now – it showed in every cut, every gash down his chest and over his arms, across his face, even on his back. Of course, it was nothing compared to the burning agony of his core; he had continued to try to use magic to defend himself through the torture of the last three days, but the dampening bracers clamped around his wrists, ankles and neck ensured that the magic simply bounced back, ripping through his soul with twice the amount of force. He had to make a physical effort to stop himself from trying to retaliate, but his strength was failing, and he was literally tearing himself apart.   
“I see il tuo dolore!” The cry came unbidden from the brute before him, Baronelli, wielding a large butcher knife. “I see your pain! Why do you restare in silenzio!” (Why do you remain silent!) He took another swing with the blade, creating a deep gash in Ghirahim’s side and yet another layer of blood on his clothes and the floor. “My pazienza si logora!” (My patience wears thin!) He continued to work at Ghirahim, giving him no time to answer.  
 _How does he… expect me to speak?_ Ghirahim’s chest heaved, and he had enough strength to roll his eyes. _I cannot even move with this constant assault!_  
“I know you can speak!” The phrase had been repeated so many times that it burned into Ghirahim’s brain: _So che si può parlare. I know you can speak. I just won’t let you._ “Parlare!” With one final slash, Baronelli stepped back, giving the demon a small amount of reprieve.  
Taking a few deep breaths through the pain, Ghirahim glared at the man, baring his teeth menacingly. He prided himself in the ability to stay silent through torture; thus far, he had not made a single sound, even as his chest lit on fire from the self-inflicted wounds. He knew, however, that his focus would not last. Something would slip through, and it would all break down; the only thing he could do was make sure that the something was impressive. He had to piss off Baronelli to the point of submission.  
Fortunately for him, these Italians, as they were called, had a seemingly endless arsenal of swear words at their disposal. Ghirahim had quickly picked up on their absolute worst words, and intended to use them to his advantage.  
“Your time è scaduto!” (Your time is up!) Baronelli readied another knife, this one serrated. “Do I have una risposta?” (Do I have an answer?) When his demand was met with silence and a heated stare, the big man stabbed Ghirahim’s arm, letting the blade sink in all the way to the hilt. He put his face close to the demon’s and growled, “I will have grande piacere in tirando lentamente.” (I will have great pleasure in pulling this out slowly.) He began fulfilling his promise, drawing his hand back mere inches, relishing the feel of the serration against bone and muscle. Blood spurted from the wound with each movement, black-red stuff that stuck to Baronelli’s person like a warning: _Danger, danger._ Ghirahim bit his lip, smearing his white lipstick with blood. No, he would not scream. He would not cry, or beg for it to stop. He would…  
The knife suddenly moved back by a full inch, and he lost control.  
“Vaffanculo!” (Fuck you!) he shrieked, blood flying from his mouth and landing on Baronelli’s shocked face. “È disgustoso cane!” (You disgusting dog!) He grinned inwardly at that one, but kept his face furious. “Spero che il tuo dio ti abbandona! Vi dirò niente, stronzo!” (I hope your god forsakes you! I will tell you nothing, asshole!) He ended his outburst by spitting at his tormentor’s feet, managing to hit one of his gore-covered boots.  
Baronelli stood stock-still, unable to move out of shock. His mouth opened and closed a few times, making him look like a dying fish, his left hand still gripping the blade embedded in Ghirahim’s arm. After a long moment, he seemed to return to his senses. “So you can speak, eh?” he said quietly, as if to himself. His face hardened into a threatening grin once more. “Or almeno alle mie parole.” (Or at least return my words.) His hold on the knife tightened. “This will not take long, then.” Ghirahim squeezed his eyes shut, and braced himself for the pain. This would take a while.


	5. Attention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realize that languages have changed since the 11th century. im really not interested in going back that far, though.

Attention. Altaïr needed to pay attention.  
“…aïr. Altaïr. Altaïr!” The man in question sat up and looked around, pulling himself from his thoughts. “Must we always do this?” Malik sighed, shaking his head. “Honestly, it is like trying to talk to an animal!”  
Altaïr leveled a glare at him. “What is it that you want, Malik? Or have you just come to insult me.” Animals may have been holy, but the assassin preferred not to be likened to any animal, no matter how magical people made them out to be.  
“Do not blaspheme. It is unbecoming.” _You have no idea._ “We have visitors, from the west.” This significantly perked him up. _From the west. Maybe they know something?_ “They await your audience in the main chamber. I would suggest meeting them as soon as possible.”  
Altaïr stood suddenly and walked to the door, Malik’s unwavering stare following him all the way. “I will see them now. They may have answers,” the higher assassin stated, and stopped. He turned to his friend. “Will you accompany me?” he asked in a tone that insinuated it wasn’t a question.  
Malik tried very hard not to look shocked; normally Altaïr locked everyone out of private meetings, including his advisor. “Of course, your Highness,” he replied, bowing slightly in an obviously mocking way. “Would you like me to carry your skirts as well?”  
The assassin merely rolled his eyes at the sarcasm and began walking down the hall. “Come, my friend. And grab the Apple while you’re at it.” He disappeared around a corner, leaving Malik alone in the study.  
“Grab the Apple while you’re at it,” Malik snorted. “Yes, your Highness.” He turned and made his way over to the desk, snatching up the golden artifact and steadily ignoring the tempting hum of its power. Placing it in a protective leather pouch, he went to leave – and stopped as he noticed what was underneath the Piece of Eden.  
It was a picture - hand-drawn, obviously worked on tediously by its artist, with intricate detailing and shading. It was a picture – of him. His face was set in a slightly blank look, with the hints of a smile encroaching on his features. Whoever had drawn it must have spent a great deal of time looking at his face and clothes, for the likeness was uncanny. He felt as if he were looking in a black-and-white mirror, one surrounded by a carefully crafted gilded frame.  
“Remarkable,” he mumbled to himself. _Is this by Altaïr?_ He wondered. _There is no way those hands hold this much talent._ But it seemed they did, for Malik discovered many other drawings by shuffling through some of the other pages, some of him, some of an unknown woman, some of various inventions and historic events. And every other page led back to his face, sketched over and over, each a better rendering than the last, the first picture the best. As he went through the pile, the woman appeared less and less, and he appeared more and more, always recurring, as if he had become something of an obsession to Altaïr, a focus of his artistic ability –  
“Malik!” he heard Altaïr shout from the hallway, and he hastily jumped away from the desk. The other assassin poked his head in the door, annoyance written across his face. “Now who is being the slow one?” He ducked back out of the room and Malik followed, still thinking about what he had just seen. What was that?  
When he arrived downstairs, however, the encounter with the pictures was blown completely out of his mind.  
“There is something happening on an island off the coast of Roma,” one of the three newcomers said, speaking in Italian, his native tongue. He was obviously the leader, and not one to beat around the bush. “Something big. It caused a massive earthquake and a giant wave, and wiped out nearly half of our villages! We need your help—“  
Altaïr held up a hand. “Slow down,” he said, also in Italian. “My language is not as good as it should be.” He sat against the edge of his public worktable. “What exactly happened?”  
The woman in the party spoke up. “There was a great… disturbance,” she said, unsure of how to put it. “As he said, there was a terrible tremor in the earth. A wave came and destroyed many on the east coast of Italia, near our capital.”  
“Are you sure it was not just an earthquake?”  
She shook her head. “This was not natural. The sky flashed with light, gold light laced with red.” Altaïr and Malik exchanged a look.  
“I think we know what has happened,” Malik said slowly, when it became clear that Altaïr wanted him to speak. “We received knowledge that… something… happened off of the coast of Italia. About three days ago.”  
The last man of their party nodded heavily, and finally spoke up. “Yes, that is when it happened,” he said gravely. “We traveled here as fast as we could. We heard rumor of an unnatural technology, held by Altaïr Ibn-la’Ahad. A magic piece.” He looked at Altaïr through the shadow created by his hood. “We knew that if there was anyone who might know anything about strange magics, it might be you.”  
“So you have pinpointed the source?” Altaïr queried rather impatiently.  
The first speaker nodded. “Yes, as I said, it was an island off the coast. Officially unnamed, as far as I know; the locals call it Isole di Morte (Isles of Death).” He shuddered. “It is surrounded by sharp rocks and high cliffs are its most predominant features; it would be a perfect place for a fortress, if treacherous.”  
Altaïr stood up and circled around to the other side of his desk, pulling out a map from one of his shelves and laying it out on the table. “Then we must travel there,” he said in muted resignation. “We will set out as soon as possible.”  
Malik did a double take and stared openly at his superior. “So soon? Altaïr, they may be leading us into a trap!” he hissed into the other’s ear, switching back to his native tongue. “How do we know they are trustworthy?”  
“They are Italian assassins. Look at their clothes. Their hands.” Altaïr continued to look at the map. “If we go from here to there, we may have safe passage and get there in two days’ time…” He began plotting a path on the map, tracing the course with is index finger. Malik glanced at the foreigners warily, and realized that Altaïr was correct. Their hoods were similar, with more embellishments than Malik found necessary, and they had the same sash, the assassin’s logo visible in the intricate metalwork of the belt. Looking at their left hands, he saw that their ring fingers were missing, and grudgingly accepted that perhaps this was not a trap after all.  
He looked back to Altaïr, who had straightened back up and was looking at him as if for a signal to go ahead. Malik nodded, and his friend turned back to the foreigners. “How soon can we leave?”

“As soon as he talks.”  
“He will be dead before then if you keep this up! You must call in a medico (doctor).”  
“He does not meritare di essere guariti! He must feel the burn of his actions to capire il suo rischio e pericolo!”(He does not deserve to be healed! He must feel the burn of his actions to understand his peril!)  
“How can he talk if his polmoni sono fratturato?” (How can he talk if his lungs are fractured?)  
A sigh was heard from the other side of the door, and a quiet muttering of, “Fine.” The door burst open, and Baronelli stormed in, looking quite angry with the small man that followed. Ghirahim followed their progress across the room with heavy-lidded eyes, keeping his head bowed, lacking the strength to move it. He had lost almost all of the blood in his body, his inherent survival instincts the only thing keeping him alive – along with his magical core, which, though in bondage, still tethered him to the mortal world. He had found himself wishing, at times, that he had not been forged with magic, so he could escape this pain and slip away from living. Immortality was a curse.  
Marcella stopped in front of the demon, staring around at the gore that coated every surface with disgust. Fighting off a wave of nausea, he said, “The doctor will see you now.”  
Ghirahim ignored him, his eyes sliding shut, enjoying the brief reprieve. Doctor. All the doctors he had ever met were medical geniuses – they were able to expertly cut into flesh and draw out blood as well as any torturer of their type. He prepped himself for the blades that would most surely peel the skin from his bones, and wished feebly that he could summon his metal form. The door opened once more, and cold dread gripped the sword spirit’s stomach. So soon? He hadn’t even had time to bleed from the last session!  
The man that stepped onto the threshold did not look like much – but Ghirahim had enough experience to know that the tiniest men could hold the most lethal pain in their hands. The demon looked for the telltale case full of death tools and found it swinging from the doctor’s grasp. Honestly, did they want his name or his life? Perhaps they had figured out that he was immortal and were using it to their advantage.  
To Ghirahim’s surprise, the dark-skinned man stopped short, looking at the room in shock. “What è successo here?” (What happened here?) he whispered, observing his surroundings surreptitiously. “What have you done to him?!” He turned around and gave Baronelli an accusing glare. “This man is nearly dead!”  
“You are not pagati per fare domande!” (You are not paid to ask questions!) The large man looked ready to strike the doctor, already angry that his specimen was being attended to by someone other than him. “You are paid to risolvere lui (fix him)! Now go!” He stormed from the room, motioning for Marcella to follow. The door slammed behind them, and the sound of locks being turned echoes through the room. “Fucking doctors,” Ghirahim could hear Baronelli muttering, “Can non smettere mai di fare questions.” (Can never stop asking questions.)  
The physician let out a sigh and pulled a rag from his pocket, cleaning a space off of the nearby table and spreading out his tools. Ghirahim sighted a scalpel and pliers among the devices and clenched his fists involuntarily, making the chains rattle. The man looked over at him with wide eyes, as if he had forgotten the demon’s presence, and put up his hands as a show of peace. “La, la, ana ln ydhr bak,” (No, no, I will not hurt you.) he said, in a language Ghirahim had never heard before. “Aw… alqrf. Alkh allghh.” The doctor cleared his throat. “I will not hurt you. I am here to help.”  
Ghirahim cocked his head to the side slightly, still wary. Doctors tended to try to win your trust first; it was part of their routine. But this one seemed different. There was no hint of malice in his eyes, and he lacked the calm collectiveness of most torturers - he moved erratically, like he couldn’t quite control his body properly. “My name is Sadiq.” His name was rather odd, too, and similar to the language he had (accidentally?) slipped into earlier. “What is yours?”  
Any relaxation that Ghirahim had found while observing the newcomer instantly vanished, and he did not hesitate in drawing back his lips and snarling animalistically at Sadiq. He _knew_ it. Just another interrogation technique, meant to bring his guard down—  
The man jumped back, visibly startled, bringing his hands to his face in a futile act of defense. “Asf, ana asf! Scusa,” (Sorry, I am sorry! Sorry.) he stuttered, first in the unknown language and then in Italian. “I did not capito che era un argomento dolente,” (I did not realize it was a sore subject.) he half-whispered through his fingers, trembling from head to toe. Ghirahim immediately closed his mouth, recognizing a terrified creature when he saw one. The image of a quivering Kikwi suddenly came to mind, and a hysterical chuckle escaped the demon’s lips. He really fucking missed those things right about then.  
The laugh made the doctor jump, and he put his hands back to his sides, straightening himself out. He let out a slightly shaky sigh and stepped forward. “I am veramente dispiaciuto per chiedere,” (I am truly sorry for asking.) he said apologetically, and bowed slightly. “I will not do so in futuro.” (I will not do so in the future.) He picked up a cloth from the table, and stepped towards the demon. “Can I… will you mi permette di trattarti?” (Will you allow me to treat you?) he asked hesitantly, and when Ghirahim made no sign of understanding, he mimed dabbing at a wound on his arm. “Will you allow me to treat you?” he repeated.  
Ghirahim thought about it for a moment. If he refused, the doctor would probably just do as he pleased anyway. Still, it was nice that the man was asking for his consent, a first in this world. “Yes,” he choked out, barely able to speak through his hoarse throat and blood-filled mouth. _Please._


	6. Covert

Covert.  
This needed to be a covert operation. As assassins, they always were secretive, but this operation would be more delicate than anything they’d ever attempted. Because, though they had infiltrated many places before, Altaïr had never gone straight into the heart of a Templar fortress. To do so would be suicide.  
But it was necessary, for the Templars had gained something terrible. Their current reconnaissance had brought back that much.  
 _With a soft clatter, Bettina dropped down into the Bureau._  
 _“What news, sister?” Niccolo called from his place on the cushions. He straightened up when he registered the tightness of her face. “Bad, I’d say.”_  
 _“The worst. The Templars have taken something – someone – hostage. A creature, sentient, intelligent, and definitely not of this world.” She collapsed onto a nearby chair and ran a hand through her dusty black hair._  
 _Niccolo’s jaw dropped. “Not of this world? What do you mean?” His eyes widened as he thought of the possibilities. The hostage could be anything – a centaur, a satyr, a mermaid…!_  
 _Bettina held up her hand. “I should not divulge any further until Master Altaïr is in my presence. He will want to know all that I have to offer.” She sighed, not wanting to stand up again so soon, and pushed herself from the soft chair. “I should inform then that I have returned.”_  
 _Niccolo scrambled up at once. “No, no, sit down! You have had a long and arduous journey. I will tell them myself.” He put his hand on her shoulder and guided her to the pillows that he had previously been resting upon. “Take a nap, you look like you need one.” He pushed gently on her shoulder, and she obliged gratefully._  
 _“Thank you, Niccolo,” she murmured, already nodding off. He gazed at her a moment longer, then turned and pushed into the back room, making his way into the tunnels which would lead to Master Altaïr’s chambers._  
 _“Not of this world,” he mumbled to himself, and shivered. What could that mean?_

Now, Altaïr was crouching beside Malik, looking through the leaves of a thick shrubbery that grew on the northern point of the Isle of Death, the setting sun casting dapples of light on his face. Here, there were a few trees and bushes growing on a rocky beach, overlooked by the massive cliffs that made up most of the island’s exterior. They were lucky that there was any beach at all, and that said beach actually had cover. A cold, harsh wind cut through the beach, whistling through the rocks and shuffling the leaves against their faces. Malik shivered despite himself.  
“Are you sure you can scale that?” he asked Altaïr rather worriedly. “It’s much larger than anything you’ve ever faced.”  
“I will be fine,” Altaïr dismissed, but inside he was apprehensive. One wrong move on the rock face and he would be history. “When will they trigger the attack? This is taking much too long.” He frowned, hoping that nothing had gone wrong. The Italians were supposed to mount an offensive while Altaïr slipped in unnoticed. It was a plan riddled with flaws and fatalities, but it was the best route; only a distraction of great magnitude would draw off so many guards. Their mysterious contact had told them that there were at least 200 people in the fortress, and hopefully most would be called to defend the south gate, leaving the north side practically defenseless.  
Suddenly, a loud explosion rocked the entire island. There was a flurry of commotion along the walls of the fortress, the guards looking like scurrying ants to Altaïr and Malik. After a minute or so, there were no men visible along the north wall. Activating his Eagle Vision, Altaïr could only see three tiny red dots among the light shapes that made up the towering walls.  
“Perfect,” he muttered. Without turning to Malik, he reported, “Three men along the wall, at dispersed intervals. I will be going.” Giving his friend a final affirming glance, he made to rush from the bushes.  
A hand on his arm stopped him. Looking back, he saw concern in Malik’s face. “Do not go killing yourself for this,” his elder warned. “It is not worth it.” Not worth you.  
Altaïr stared at him a moment, then his face seemed to soften slightly under the hood. “Of course,” he murmured, a hint of a smile on his lips. “You worry too much.”  
Malik sighed through his nose. “Just… be careful.” He released Altaïr’s arm, and the Master Assassin rushed through the leaves and into the shadows that the rocks cast, moving silently across the beach and latching easily onto the cliff face. Malik watched as the white form, barely visible to the naked eye, began expertly climbing up the rocky surface, quickly becoming a small dot on the black slope.  
“Please,” he whispered, to Altaïr or himself, he was unsure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!!! sorry ive been so inactive omg  
> i realized listening to the ac soundtracks makes it really easy to write this fic though, so im gonna use that hehe :>  
> another chap should be up sooner than later??? idk i wanted to get this up tho


	7. Excitement

Excitement.  
This was the feeling that was most predominant in Altaïr’s mind as he climbed his way up the cliff through the night. The sheer exhilaration of feeling the wind ruffle his clothes, the cold stone beneath his palms, knowing he was hundreds of feet from any form of solid ground, all made him feel like he was a teenager again, a novice learning how to fly, rather than a grown man with the responsibility of the Brotherhood – and perhaps the world - in his hands. He felt free.  
As he heaved himself up yet another ledge, he pondered his mission. He had no idea how this captive would react to rescue – would it know rescue when it saw it? Would it try to attack him? All possibilities must be considered. The other question was how to escape from this wretched place once he actually had the prisoner with him. He knew that there would be plenty of places to jump from, allowing a Leap of Faith into the ocean below – but would the prisoner be willing to place his trust in a stranger so soon? Altaïr knew that he himself would have difficulties trusting anyone in this terrible fortress if the extent of the torture was as the little doctor had reported. Hopefully, however, he could convince the captive to come along. There would be no other logical choice.  
Altaïr was pulled out of his thoughts as his hand collided with a different material. He had reached the bottom of the brick wall that made up the outside of the fortress. Gazing up the sheer surface, he couldn’t see any obvious handholds or ledges. _They anticipated this,_ he sighed internally. He had climbed worse, though, and without further ado he jumped up the wall to the first obvious crack, fitting his hands in between two loose bricks. Then, moving slowly to avoid detection under the light of the moon, he crawled his way across the smaller crevices and protrusions, keeping his grip light so as not to slip.  
What would to prisoner look like, he wondered. The description they had been given hadn’t been very specific. It had a male-looking body, and light gray skin that nevertheless hid red blood. The doctor had said that there was too much gore and too many lacerations to clearly get an idea of what the creature looked like normally. _Hopefully it does not die of blood loss before I get there,_ Altaïr thought, grimacing slightly. He felt a ledge under his hands and looked up. Finally, he reached the top.  
Switching to Eagle Vision, Altaïr identified the guards and their search patterns. He sidled over to where one was standing and quickly pulled him over the edge, knowing that the howling wind would mask his screams. Hopping up onto the wall, Altaïr stalked up behind the second guard and stuck the hidden blade through the slats in his armor. He threw the body over the edge of the cliff for good measure. _Two down, one to go._  
Turning around, he saw that the third guard had vanished. He flicked his Eagle Vision on and off, but could not locate the final man. Shrugging internally, Altaïr decided to just keep moving. He slid along the wall, keeping to the shadows, creeping towards the door that would hopefully lead into the inner sanctum, where the prisoner was said to be kept.  
Just as he reached the door, his foot caught on something. Looking down, he saw the body of the third guard, an arrow through his temple. “Malik, you talented bastard,” he muttered, shaking his head in admiration. After tossing this body over the wall as well, he moved on, pushing the (thankfully unlocked) door open silently and entering the northeast tower.  
Altaïr found himself on a set of wooden stairs that spiraled downward through the guard tower. _Great,_ he groaned to himself, _I hope they are new._ He suppressed a flinch every time a step creaked, walking as lightly as he could, keeping close to the wall where the wood was sturdier. Apparently, the attack on the front gates was drawing more men than they had anticipated, for Altaïr met only one guard on his way down, who was dispatched quickly and silently via hidden blade.  
The steps went down for a very long time. Altaïr figured that he was by now deep within the cliff, somewhere close to the prisoner’s cell. Finally, he reached the bottom of the staircase, where a guard stood, completely oblivious. The assassin shot a poison dart in the man’s neck, then backed off to see if anyone came running. His judgment was sound; as the poisoned man began to swing his weapon around wildly, there was a clatter of footsteps along the corridor, and two more guards came into view. As soon as they stepped into the room to check the deceased’s vitals, Altaïr dropped on them, performing a double assassination with practiced ease. _These double blades were a stroke of genius._  
Finished with commending his inventions, Altaïr walked down the hall, keeping his Eagle Vision on and searching each door he came across. He was about to suspect that the doctor had in fact been lying and that this was all an elaborate trap when he came across a door that glowed brighter than the rest. _There you are._  
The door was, of course, locked; but a Master Assassin like Altaïr would not be stopped by something as simple as a lock, even one with so many cogs. After a few minutes of fiddling, the lock sprang open, and he was able to push open the heavy door. He braced himself for what might lie inside; the prisoner sounded human enough, but what horrors would it present?  
The first thing Altaïr noticed was the blood. It covered every surface, and filled the air with the sharp, metallic smell that only it could create. There was also the smell of the ocean, which seemed to be coming from a small slit that acted as a sort of window. There was a table in the center of the room that seemed to be equally covered in bandages as it was in torture devices. _They run a very concise operation._  
A tinkling sound was coming from the far end of the room, accompanied by the familiar light of importance that Altaïr had grown accustomed to over his years of honing the Eagle Vision. The light was surrounding a bloodied and battered form, hanging limp from chains attached to the wall an uncomfortable-looking distance from each other. Altaïr cautiously stepped closer, not wanting to startle the creature, who seemed to be unconscious. Its clothes hung in rags from its body, which was definitely male in human standards, Altaïr noted. He suppressed a noise of surprise when he saw that, underneath all the red, it really was gray-skinned. He was holding up his hand to compare the skin tones when he heard a voice.  
“Are you just going to stand there and look like a fool?” The voice was rough, like it hadn’t been used in weeks, or perhaps had been used too much. It took Altaïr a moment to realize that the voice came from the prisoner. “Or will you – unchain me already?” He (Altaïr decided that it was definitely a he – and, speaking face-to-face with him now, the assassin realized it would be extremely rude to refer to a sentient being as ‘it’) spoke in almost seamless Italian, pausing only slightly to properly conjugate his verbs, Altaïr supposed.  
Then the prisoner raised his head, and Altaïr’s heart stopped.  
It was only for a moment, but it definitely skipped a beat; for Altaïr had never seen such pristine beauty in all his life, not even in Maria (Malik didn’t count as beautiful). Even under all the cuts and various bodily fluids the assassin could see the fine, pointed lips, the thick, white lashes, the dark brown eyes still sparkling with vigor even after weeks of torture. The fine white hair that cascaded around his face was caked in blood, but Altaïr could imagine it spotless, drifting in a summer breeze. A single black diamond marked his cheek, and Altaïr could imagine himself kissing it in worship.  
“Well?” The prisoner was talking again, his voice getting steadily stronger as he talked. “Am I so – beautiful you have no words left?” This effectively snapped Altaïr out of his reverie, and he felt embarrassed for even thinking those thoughts. What was that, anyway? He had never felt such a pull towards someone so immediately. Maria had just been a sort of curiosity; Malik was a longstanding want for admiration that sort of evolved over the years; but this was different, though not unpleasantly so.  
“We must leave.” The prisoner smirked at his obvious avoidance, but let it slide. Altaïr made quick work of the shackles, simply crushing them with well-placed jabs of a knife. The unchained man immediately collapsed, unused to standing after being suspended in the air for an entire month. Altaïr anticipated this and caught him, supporting him with one arm while he regained his footing.  
“Can you run?” It was a stretch, but Altaïr knew that the distraction would not buy them much more time. They had to hurry.  
The prisoner nodded, and scraped at something on his wrists – some sort of bracelets that Altaïr hadn’t noticed before. They looked crude and painfully man-made, and cut harshly into the stranger’s wrists. Altaïr grabbed his hands and made to pull the terrible things off when he heard the clattering of footsteps down the hallway.  
“Come on!” Altaïr wasted no time. He lifted the prisoner up in his arms and sprinted out of the room and down the hallway, ignoring the angry shouts that erupted from behind him. He dashed up the stairs and cursed as some of the steps began to break away from the wall. _Don’t break completely, I want to get out of this alive._ He looked at the man in his arms and chuckled quietly. It seemed that in all the commotion the prisoner had fallen back into unconsciousness. _Let him sleep for now. He will face the jump later._  
Just as Altaïr thought that he could run no more, he reached the top of the tower. Without skipping a beat, he placed his burden on the ground and set to work breaking the stairs away from the wall. It only took a few loose nails before the entire thing fell away, bringing the rather unfortunate guards down with it. That route closed the assassin set back to escaping, grabbing up the prisoner with considerably more effort than before. He turned and ran along the east wall, searching desperately for a good jumping point. _There! From the southeast tower!_ A scaffold was still attached to the edge of it, making it a perfect place to perform a Leap. He was halfway across the wall when the door on the tower opened and guards began flooding from it. Altaïr cursed and put the prisoner on the ground, readying for a fight.  
Just as he drew his sword, the first one was on him, immediately launching forward to attack. Altaïr used the momentum of unsheathing to slash his sword across the guard’s torso, ducking under the spray of blood to jam the blade into the next guard’s leg, sticking him in the throat with his hidden blade for good measure. He pulled the sword free with a harsh ripping sound and deflected an attack that would have given him a wound to rival Malik’s. The sharp ring of steel on steel filled the air, and Altaïr felt more alive than he had in months. The guard broke through his defense and managed to hit the assassin on his left hip; this turned out to be his downfall, however, for the Master Assassin used the force to dive to the right and grab another guard, tossing him against the first one and stabbing them both through the middle at the same time. The guards’ screams of triumph turned to ones of terror as, one by one, they fell to Altaïr’s blade. Finally, there was one Templar left standing, surrounded by the dead bodies of his comrades.  
“Please! Have mercy!” The guard crouched on the floor, holding his hands up in surrender. “I do not want to die!”  
“You did not have mercy on this poor man,” Altaïr growled, gesturing to the unconscious form behind him. “Why should I give you the honor?” He didn’t allow the man to answer; his sword flashed, and the guard’s head thunked on the blood-soaked bricks.  
Altaïr looked down and sighed. _Well, this was a mess._ He once again scooped up the prisoner and dashed over to the tower, climbing up the stone stairs that spiraled around the outside of it. As he arrived at the top, he noticed a man standing with his back to him, in front of the scaffold. _One more death before I can get out of this wretched approximation of a fortress._ However, he did not take more than a few steps before the man turned and immediately held up his hands.  
“I am not here to stop you,” he said in Arabic. “I am here to help, I am the doctor.”  
Altaïr raised his eyebrows. “How do I know I can trust you?” he shot back, though he was happy to be speaking in his native tongue.  
The small man gestured to the person in Altaïr’s arms. “He will vouch for me,” the man said, his voice confident. “Besides, you do not have much time.” He was right. Altaïr could hear the clattering of armor in the distance, and the voices of angry men.  
“I can always cut you out of the way,” Altaïr responded, and made to put the prisoner down when a hand on his chest stopped him.  
“Put me down,” the alien said, “I can walk.” He crossed the distance between Altaïr and the stranger, his shaky steps growing stronger as he reached him, grabbing onto the doctor’s shoulder for support. Altaïr stepped closer in response, but still kept back.  
“This man is,” the prisoner began in Italian, and took a deep breath, as though just talking was costing a great effort, “Sadiq. He treated my wounds,” another breath, “he is a friend.” This last phrase he spoke in Arabic.  
Altaïr stayed wary a moment more, then saw just how tired the alien was. “Very well, I will trust you. But be warned,” he pointed a finger at Sadiq, “I am watching always.” He turned to the prisoner. “You will have to jump. There is no other option.” The gray man didn’t seem to understand, so he tried again in Italian. This time he understood, but didn’t realize what it entailed – until he turned and saw the scaffolding, and paled considerably.  
“You mean… into the ocean from there?” He turned back. “I do not know if I can – survive such a thing.” There was fear in his voice, and uncertainty.  
“I will be taking you,” Altaïr soothed, “and I have performed this Leap many times before.” The “I will keep you safe” hung in the air, unsaid but understood.  
Sadiq pulled him slightly aside and whispered, “How many times has this multi-person Leap been done?” He looked almost as scared as the prisoner. “How do you know you will survive?”  
“I am sure it will work. If anyone gets hurt, it’s me,” Altaïr said. “I did create the technique.” Sadiq looked considerably comforted, but only because Altaïr forgot to add, “Two minutes ago.”  
“Come, we must go.” The sound of voices was getting louder by the second, and Altaïr didn’t really feel like taking down another group of guards, no matter how exhilarating it may have been. “I need you to grab onto me from behind, like this,” he directed the alien into a position so he would be standing in front of Altaïr with his back to the assassin, arms wound around Altaïr’s middle. “When we are in the air, you must wait, and then let go before we hit the water. Is that clear?” The man hesitated, then nodded. “If you do not let go your arms may break, so do not forget.” Altaïr backed them up so that they were standing on the edge of the scaffold. “Make sure to relax your muscles and allow the water to bend you, else other things of more important value may break. And don’t forget to hold your breath.” Altaïr hoped that his back wouldn’t break from this; he quite liked his life, as hectic as it was.  
“We will have to launch off backwards. Sadiq, will you follow?” The little man looked up at his name, and gave a non-committal gesture.  
“If I can.” He looked at the stairwell, and Altaïr realized he meant to hold off the attackers.  
Grabbing his parcel around the middle, he gave one final nod to the doctor. “Safe travels, my brother,” he muttered, more to himself than Sadiq.  
And he Leaped.

It felt like an eternity in the air.  
As they fell, Altaïr felt that he had made a huge mistake; he never should have attempted this, he was going to die, he should have just ignored the entire thing and stayed in Masyaf where there was at least a chance he would get to live out the rest of his life, a chance that he would have grown old and seen his Order flourish and spent quiet days with Malik, reading or talking or enjoying each others’ company in more interesting and perhaps blasphemous ways. Hell, he should have just fucking told Malik, should have kissed him till he was breathless and shaky and horny as a teenager again, all those times he had wanted to and resisted because he couldn’t do that to their friendship or Malik hated him or they were rivals or he thought it was wrong because he was sixteen and still studying the Quran like the good schoolboy he was. He should have kissed him on the beach before he went up into that miserable place, or maybe climbed back down after that skillful shooting had just made him want to scream with adoration.  
So many regrets and times he had wanted to express his feelings but didn’t because he was Altaïr, the Master Assassin at the age of 24, the prodigy, the unfeeling, the Mentor and the Leader of an Order that still didn’t really trust him but had to because there was no one else left to lead them.  
And then he hit the water, and it was so cold and he sank like a stone, and he wondered if it wouldn’t be better for everyone if he just kept sinking.  
And then he remembered the warm body that had been pressed up against him seconds earlier, and knew that he couldn’t give up, not now.  
His head breached the surface of the water and he gasped for breath, pushing his hood off and looking around wildly for the prisoner. When he didn’t immediately see him, he dove under the water, searching desperately through the inky blackness before remembering:  
 _Eagle Vision._  
Immediately he saw the flash of gold through the dark gray waves and dove for it, grabbing onto the man’s torso and using the last of his strength to bring them both back to the surface. Struggling to keep both of them afloat, he latched onto a nearby rock and waited for the rescue boat to find them.  
Twenty minutes and an entire team of deckhands later, Altaïr and his damsel were on the deck of a large sailboat, soaking wet and shivering, but both alive. The prisoner had fainted in the water, but the on-boat doctor said his vitals were strong. Altaïr brushed off the doctor’s offers of aid, opting instead for a warm blanket and a search for his best friend.  
“Altaïr! You have no idea how happy I am to see you alive,” Malik exclaimed, clapping his hand onto the Master Assassin’s shoulder. “I did not know if you would survive the Leap.”  
Altaïr grinned openly. “I did not know if I would either,” he replied, leaning into Malik’s touch. “I am glad you are safe as well. That was some nice shooting earlier, by the way.”  
Malik looked slightly sheepish. “It was nothing. I had a lot of time to set up the shot.”  
Altaïr rolled his eyes. “Malik, my friend,” he huffed, “just accept the compliment.”  
Malik had the gall to look affronted for a moment before relaxing and replying, “Very well, brother. Thank you.”  
Any further conversation was interrupted by shouting coming from the starboard side of the ship. Altaïr and Malik rushed over to see what the commotion was, and found many of the boat’s crew crowded by the water, looking at a man bobbing in the waves.  
“I am a friend of the prisoner’s! Ask Altaïr!” he was yelling, thrashing desperately to stay afloat. Altaïr could see he was wounded badly in the right shoulder. “Please, I need help!”  
“Let him up!” Altaïr called to the crew. “He’s telling the truth!” Immediately, a rope was thrown out to the man, who was, of course, Sadiq. He bounded over to the man as soon as he got on the deck, calling for the doctor.  
“This man needs medical attention, and deserves the respect of all the crew,” he yelled, commanding the attention of the crowd. “He risked his life to give me time to escape, and for that, I am grateful.” His speech done, Altaïr crouched down beside Sadiq. “I am in your debt, my friend,” he murmured. “If you ever need anything from me or my Order, do not hesitate to ask.” Sadiq only nodded, too tired to say anything. Altaïr stood up and walked to where his recently rescued captive lay.  
“How is he doing?” he asked the man who was guarding him.  
“His vitals are stable, sir,” the guard replied. “We dried him and cleaned him best as we could, sir, but he will need a few weeks at least to recover, the doctor said.” Altaïr gazed down at the alien’s face, marveling in the beauty of it, even through the obvious pain. They had covered his naked form in heaps of blankets, to avoid his getting any serious sicknesses. The assassin stared at the strange man a moment longer, before turning to Malik, who was waiting just behind him.  
“Malik –“  
“Come and sit, Altaïr, you are about to fall over.” It was true; Altaïr stumbled his way over to an open spot on the deck, plopping down oh-so-eloquently and leaning back against the railing, letting out a long groan of exhaustion. How could one possibly feel so tired?  
“What will we do about our new parcel?” Malik questioned curiously.  
“He is not a parcel. He speaks Italian as well as you or me, and even knows a little Arabic,” Altaïr replied, rubbing at his face. “I feel that he is more intelligent than either of us could possibly imagine.”  
Malik was silent for a while after that, and Altaïr was just about to fall asleep when Malik said, so quietly that Altaïr could barely hear him, “These are strange times we live in, eh, brother?”  
Altaïr sighed in agreement, dropping his head to his knees. “Strange times indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi have a really long chapter all of a sudden -runs away-  
> also if u didnt figure out before this is completely unbeta'd like i barely even read this shit before i post it ur gettin the raw deal here


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